


Red Dead Redemption Requests

by lizlazer



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Requests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizlazer/pseuds/lizlazer
Summary: This is a collection of all of my completed requests for Red Dead Redemption 2. More will be added as they are completed. Each chapter is its own self-contained story.





	1. Coming Home, Arthur/F!Reader

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I take requests over at http://vanderlindeboyz.tumblr.com/

Turning down the small dirt path, Arthur couldn’t be happier to see Clemens Point. After picking up a bounty in Strawberry, he’d had to chase the son of a bitch way up into the Grizzlies. It had taken a week longer than he had planned, and he came back hungry, tired, and ready to go home. He rode hard and determined, stopping only to rest the horse. While the location was ever changing, your presence in camp was a promise that he had come to rely on. He thought about sitting with you on the boat, early in the morning, fog hanging low against the water, your fingers entwined with his.

“Goddamn, Arthur. It’s been so long I figured you for dead,” John exclaimed as Arthur trotted by him, lowering his rifle.

“Almost. But you could only be so lucky,” he hollered back at him.

At the commotion everyone in camp stirred. They all shouted their hellos, but it was Tilly who got up to help him. It was late in the day, the sun just beginning to set. Everyone was sitting around the fires while Pearson cooked up dinner. It was venison stew, as Tilly informed him, and the smell wafting from the pot made Arthur’s stomach growl. She laughed.

“You know I’ve been starved if Pearson’s cookin’ smells good to me,” Arthur chuckled, removing the saddle from his horse.

“We were all worried about you, Arthur. It’s good to have you back safe and sound.” Tilly helped him with the saddlebags, walking over to his tent. All the while, he was scanning the camp, looking for any sign of you.

Tilly took notice, elbowing Arthur gently in the ribs. “She went out fishing, but she should be back soon,” she assured him, laying down the saddlebags.

Arthur gave a small smile, nodded. “Thanks, Tilly. You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

“There ain’t much else to do around here aside from observe. Now get those clothes off. I’ll have Mary-Beth wash them.” She reached out, and he did as he was told, stripping down to his long johns. “I left you a new bar of soap next to your shaving kit. Why don’t you try to impress her a little and get yourself cleaned up before she gets back?” With a wink, she headed off across the camp, arms full of his laundry.

He took the hint, knowing he wasn’t exactly fresh. Grabbing some clean clothes from the chest and the soap, he went off to find a somewhat secluded spot on the shore. The air was hot and humid but rapidly cooling as the sun began to slip behind the hills in the distance. Awkwardly, he tested the temperature of the water with a foot, and finding it agreeable, stripped off his long johns and waded in. In waist-high water, he scrubbed himself head to toe.

He was fastening the button on a new pair of pants when you rounded the shore. Eyes wide, you called to him, “Well hell, Arthur! Is that you?!”

His gaze snapped up to you, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Don’t just stand there, starin’. Get yourself over here!”

Dropping your gear and a bucket full of bass and bluegill, you ran over to him, practically jumping on him. Arms wrapped around his neck, you squeezed him hard. Peppering kisses along his jaw and over his cheeks, he turned his head and caught your lips easily. With over two weeks of waiting behind it, the kiss was rough and full of need. Your teeth caught his lower lip, biting gently. He groaned, a shudder going through him. Putting your hands on his chest, you pushed some space between the two of you, needing to catch your breath. He didn’t let you go though, arms wrapped tight around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He inhaled deeply, kissing your neck in that little spot that made you shiver. “God above, woman, I’ve missed you.”

You laughed, one of your hands going to his damp hair. “I’m glad you washed the trail off first. It’s a nice change from the usual.”

Arthur lifted his head up from your shoulder, placing his hands on either side of your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Tilly gave me the idea. Otherwise I would have went huntin’ all over the lake for you,” he said, kissing you again quickly.

“I’ll have to thank her, then.” Separating yourself from him, you went to gather your abandoned items. “How long have you been in?”

“Only about an hour, not even that long,” he answered, pulling on a blue shirt and doing up the buttons. It was then you noticed an ugly bruise on his collarbone, dark purple and edged with yellow.

“Looks like you didn’t have an easy time of it,” you said, trying to hide the worry in your voice.

His fingers gingerly touched the spot for a moment before continuing with the buttons. “I didn’t, and that’s all I’ll say about it.” His tone was serious and a little sad.

“Well come on then. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Later, after the work was done and his belly full, you both relaxed by the scout’s fire. You sat cross-legged, a book open in one hand. Arthur spooned coffee into the basket of the percolator. Leaving it to it’s work, he stretched out beside you, laying his head in your lap. Idly, one of your hands ran through his hair, nearly dried now. He let out a contented sigh as your nails gently scratched his scalp, folding his hands over his chest. In his excitement to see you, he had forgotten how tired he was. Now, with a big meal tucked away and the soothing touch of your hands on him, he felt bone tired.

Your fingers traced around his ears, going down to his jaw to run through his thick beard. “You planning on keeping this?” you asked him playfully, scratching his cheek under the bristly hair.

“Maybe,” he grumbled, his voice thick and a little slurred with the need to sleep. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, so he just let them close. “Why? Don’t care for it?” His brow furrowed, and he frowned.

“I don’t mind it, I’ll say that.” Your free hand moved down his chest, sliding under his palms. The slow beating of his heart had a calming effect on you, and you took one of his hands in yours. The knuckles were bruised and cut, purple and yellow, thanks to a bounty that Arthur wouldn’t speak of. You kissed each one, your lips lingering against the abused skin.

Arthur made a sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a rumble and a moan. Your touch eased every knot and sore muscle in him. Letting out a soft chuckle, you laid his hand back on his chest.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed,” you softly whispered to him, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“Not just yet. Let me have a few more minutes of this,” he sleepily grumbled, taking your hand in one of his, thumb slowly stroking your skin.

Coffee all but forgotten, you smiled, nodding. “Alright.” You sat the book down finally, using your free hand to comb your fingers through his hair again. These days, moments like this were so rare, and getting rarer all the time.

“I don’t deserve you. You know that,” Arthur mumbled, startling you.

“Quit it,” you told him, lightly smacking his shoulder. “You know I hate when you talk like that.”

“I didn’t do anythin' nice up in Strawberry, darlin’,” he said, his eyes open now and staring into the fire. “I don’t know how you can bear to touch me. Some days, I can barely stand to be in my own skin.”

“Oh, Arthur,” you said, giving a weary sigh. “It’s time for bed.”

Arthur sat up slowly, stiff from the hard ground. He stood with a good long stretch, and you took this moment to wrap your arms around his waist.

“You’re not a bad person, Arthur. Maybe not an entirely good one, and a little naive sometimes.” At that last part, he huffed, making a sour face. “But far from a bad one.” Taking his face in your hands, you pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering. He leaned into it, his hands pulling your hips closer to him.

“That was the worst effort to cheer someone up I have ever heard,” Arthur said, laughter in his voice.

You shrugged, smiling. “I think living with a bunch of outlaws for so long has made me uncivilized.”

He smiled, dipping his head down to kiss you again. Lips still touching yours, he mumbled in low tones, “I wouldn’t have you any other way, darlin’.”


	2. The Faith, Arthur/Dutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Vandermorgan hurt/comfort (mostly hurt). Set at some point during Chapter 6.

Arthur tried to remember a time when he felt worse than he currently did, but not a single moment stood out. Some days were worse than others, but with this sickness every bad day was the worst of his life. His chest felt heavy and ached with every breath. More than once he was startled to hear whistling only to realize that it was him. An old white handkerchief clutched in his hand was wet with blood. Frustrated and angry, he threw the handkerchief onto the ground. Pulling his thin blanket up around his shoulders, he curled into himself, unable to shake a chill he’d had for the last hour or so. 

“Arthur? You in there?” came Dutch’s voice, quiet and concerned.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur answered, “Leave me be, Dutch. I’m not well.”

“I know, son. Pearson said he hadn’t seen you today. Have you eaten?” Dutch, always impatient, let himself into Arthur’s tent. Letting the flap fall closed behind him, he grabbed a chair by Arthur’s little table. With a deep breath, he lowered himself slowly onto the seat.

“What do you want? Can’t a man die in peace?” Arthur grumbled, not turning to face him. Instead his eyes locked onto the photo of Hosea, Dutch, and himself. He was deeply thankful that Hosea wasn’t here to see the gang now, to see Arthur frail and fading. Feeling raw both inside and out, tears stung his eyes.

Dutch let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never thought this would happen to you. Figured you would outlive us all,” he said, a half-hearted laugh following his words. “You have a more logical head on your shoulders. Always have.”

Arthur finally turned, abruptly sitting up. He was going to yell at Dutch, tell him to get out and go stuff himself up Micah’s ass. But when he took a breath it felt like nails in his throat. The coughing ripped through him, shaking him to his core. The pressure in his head threatened to pop out his eyeballs, and he knew that they’d be red with blood.

Dutch stood, placing a hand on his back. He handed Arthur his handkerchief, but he waved it away, struggling to catch his breath. The hand he had covered his mouth with was red.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Dutch said, the shock cracking his voice. “I had no idea how bad this was.” He crouched next to the cot, on hand on Arthur’s shoulder and the other on his thigh.

“Doctor told me I don’t have much farther to go,” Arthur rasped. A spiteful grin twisted his face, his teeth stained with blood. “I beat some poor ol’ rancher to death, a real sick feller. Owed money to Strauss.” He looked at Dutch, his bloodshot eyes boring into the older man. “And now I’m the one with a debt that’s owed.”

Dutch just stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “Son, I… I’ll kill Strauss,” he growled, taking Arthur’s face in his hands. “I’ll make him sign his ledger in his life’s blood.”

“I already took care of it, Dutch.” There was exhaustion in his tone, and he shook his head. “I couldn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

Dutch’s face softened slightly, but he still had that intense look in his eyes. “You’re a better man than me, son.” His thumbs stroked Arthur’s cheeks, and he had to stop himself from melting into Dutch’s touch.

Arthur snorted, followed by a tiny cough. “That ain’t much of a compliment.”

Dutch raised to Arthur’s eye level, their noses less than an inch from each other. “I mean it, son. I do.” His mustache was close enough to scratch at Arthur’s lips. Weeks ago, this would have sent shivers through Arthur. He would kiss that man like it was the end of the world, like it was the last kiss they would ever share. Fall at his feet like an obedient dog and revel in the touch of his master.

Instead, he shoved Dutch back. “Leave me, Dutch,” he said, choking on the words a little. “Just… get out.”

Something snapped in Dutch then. His face darkened, and his hands curled into fists. “When did you lose the faith, Arthur?” he said, his voice like a rumble of thunder.

“I loved you, Dutch. Would have gladly died for you.” Arthur’s throat was tight, a mix of the coughing and a terrible sadness that had been with him since Hosea died. “But I won’t be an accomplice to this new cruelty of yours any longer.”

Dutch forced a breath through gritted teeth, turning and throwing the tent flap open. Arthur laid back in his cot, and tried to think of better times.

“Hosea, what do I do?” Arthur whispered. “I still need you, old friend.” His voice cracked, and tears began to roll down into his hairline. A sob shook him. “What do I do?”


	3. Carry My Heart, Arthur/F!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set at the end of Chapter 5, beginning of Chapter 6. Reader is forced to part with Arthur.

It had been a month since you’d laid eyes on Arthur Morgan. They had been planning the bank heist when you left, Arthur giving you a lingering kiss goodbye. You had heard of a lucrative bounty out in West Elizabeth, and so had ridden off after it. He had promised to leave word somehow if, or more likely when, they were forced to move. 

When you road back into Shady Belle, you found nothing but an empty house and four dead Pinkertons. Someone had left a note pointing to Lakay, but it had been similarly abandoned by the time you arrived. More bullets, more bodies, but no sign of the gang. Fearing the worst, you checked the papers often for news of their capture or destruction. Backtracking into New Hanover, you thought you had finally found a lead when a man matching Arthur’s description had been spotted stealing a horse in Van Horn. However, coming to Van Horn and trying to talk to the locals had been about as pleasant as pulling teeth.

Defeated and exhausted, you headed to the saloon. With the sun down, the place was packed full. You shouldered your way to the bar, slapping the wood surface twice to get the bartender’s attention. The man worked quick, bless him, and you were nursing a whiskey in no time. Leaving a good tip, you stepped away to find a spot to sit. Luckily, a pair of drunken fisherman were abandoning a little table in the far corner, and you swooped in as they stumbled off. Laying your hat down, you raised the glass to your lips, taking a slow sip. The sweet heat was a welcome feeling, easing that persistent ache in your chest that had become your constant companion these last few weeks.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. The noise in the bar shifted, becoming the voices of the gang. Karen, Uncle, and Javier singing; Mrs. Grimshaw hollering about this, that, or the other; Pearson calling supper time. Sean making a terrible joke; Hosea telling one of his famous stories; Dutch giving one of his grand speeches. Knowing you were just making yourself sad, you opened your eyes and slammed the whiskey back. Setting the glass on the table, you picked up your hat and pushed your way to the door.

Outside the air was cool and it helped clear the ghosts from your mind. Reaching into your pouch, you retrieved a pack of cigarettes. You pulled one out, replacing the pack in your bag and grabbing a match. The tiny flame exploded into life as you struck it against your boot, bringing it to the tip of the cigarette. As you did, you noticed a figure approaching you out of the corner of your eye. You let the match drop casually to the ground, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

“Look, mister,” you started, “I was just looking for a friend. I’m not here to cause trouble.” Letting the cigarette hang between your lips, you put up your hands in surrender.

“Well, god help you, you’ve found him,” came a gravelly, familiar voice.

Your eyes snapped over to the man, and you almost ate your cigarette when you saw Arthur standing there. Even in the dim lantern light, you knew something was wrong. He was smaller than when you last saw him, and his faithful canvas jacket seemed to hang off him.

Tossing the cigarette into the street, you pulled him into a fierce embrace. “My god, Arthur. You’ve given me such a fright,” you said, fighting back tears, burying your face into the crook of his neck. His arms circled around you, squeezing you as tight as he could manage.

“I know, darlin’. I’m so sorry for that,” he mumbled against your hair, a little too hoarse for your liking.

Pulling back from him a little, you said, “We shouldn’t do this out in front of god and everybody. Come on. I’ve got a room above the post office.”

You led him across the street and up the stairs. Once inside you set about getting the lamps lit. When you finished, you turned to look at Arthur and made a noise of shock. He was as white as a sheet, his eyes bloody from broken blood vessels. While he was clean, it was obvious he hadn’t bothered to groom himself in a while. His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, and his beard was becoming scraggly.

“Arthur, what happened?” you asked, breathless.

Wearily he took a seat on the bed and told you everything. The bank, Hosea, Lenny, the boat, Guarma, Dutch losing a little bit more of himself at every turn. You sat there next to him in silence, taking in every horrible detail, one of your hands on his. When he finished, you reached up to his face, tenderly stroking his cheek.

“None of that explains what’s wrong with  _ you _ ,” you gently admonished him, voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur grimaced, then gave a wry smile. “I’m dyin’, darlin’.” He snorted, running a hand through his hair. “I made it through all of that only to come back and have a doc tell me I have tuberculosis.”

Your mouth was hanging open, a terrified look in your eyes. A million thoughts crowded into your mind, as cloistered and noisy as the bar earlier. He’d had a cough for a while, but you both had chalked it up to living in the humid swamp. It was difficult to reconcile that tickle in his throat with the ghost of a man in front of you now.

That ache in your chest was moving up, closing in around your throat. Swallowing hard, you said, “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

“I was told to go somewhere dry and warm,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Kick my feet up, take it easy. As if I had that option.”

“Well hell, Arthur. Let’s go get good and lost in the Mojave.” You laid a hand on his arm, squeezing. “After everything you’ve just told me, why stay?”

He closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “Because I have a bad feelin’. And I can’t leave the women and Jack alone to face whatever is comin’.”

You stood, sharply taking in a breath, letting it hiss out through gritted teeth. “Arthur. You said yourself, you’re dying. Now they are grown women, plenty capable of taking care of themselves.”

“And Jack? Is he plenty capable?” he yelled back at you.

“Good god, man. He has Abigail. And lower your voice!” You pressed a finger to your lips.

“Abigail is capable, but to leave her to fend for herself and the boy? I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that,” he whispered harshly at you. As he spoke, something was working its way up his throat, and it caught. A small cough erupted from him that he tried to hold back, but that only seemed to make it worse. He choked on it and started hacking, one hand covering his mouth the other gripping the bedpost for dear life. It was as if he was fighting against something, and he was losing. Left gasping, he lowered his hand and found it spattered with blood.

Horrified but still angry, you handed him a handkerchief from your pocket. “Listen to yourself. You’re broken and weak, and if you continue on this way, they will get you killed,” you scolded him.

That seemed to reignite his fire, and he rasped, “I’m not broken. And I can’t run away with you to the goddamn Mojave. There are people dependin’ on me.” He stood and moved toward the door, but you stepped into his path. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “Get outta my way.”

“Oh, so you were just going to let me wander around searching for you forever?” you said, your voice rising. You started biting on your lower lip, trying to keep from screaming at him.

He grabbed you by both shoulders, harder than he meant to. “I was tryin’ to let you get away clean, you damn fool,” he growled.

You shoved against his chest, but he wouldn’t budge. “Leaving me in the dark isn’t protecting me! I’ve spent weeks running all over Lemoyne and New Hanover, looking for you!” Tears welled up in your eyes, and while you tried to fight them, they spilled out over your cheeks anyway. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and shook him. “I love you, and you left me and you tell me all this… I don’t know what to do,” you said, voice cracking. A sob rocked you, and you felt his grip slacken.

Before you had time to react, he had your face in his hands, his lips crashing against yours. The kiss was so hard it could bruise, but you returned it eagerly. The taste on your tongue was of salt and copper. His hands came up and tangled in your hair, undoing the braid you had it in. They luxuriated in it, his fingers softly scratching against your scalp. You pushed him back towards the bed, still locked together. The backs of his legs hit the edge and he sat down, pulling you into a straddling position over his lap.

“I’ve missed you more than the flowers miss the rain,” you whispered against his lips. He pressed his lips to yours again with a hunger that you hadn’t seen from him before. Your fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, getting the first few open to run your hands through the hair on his chest. He made a low sound in this throat, his hands squeezing your hips hard.

Slowly he pulled away from you. “Oh darlin’, this ain’t what I came here to do, much as I would like to,” Arthur mumbled, helping you to stand. He did up his buttons and stood as well.

Lips swollen, hair mussed, you asked, “Well then, what did you come here to do?”

He bit his lip, looked down at his boots and then back up to you. “To say goodbye.”

His words were like a blow to the gut, and you shook your head. “No, Arthur. I’m not leaving you. Not now.”

“Listen to me, please,” he said. “Did you get that money from the bounty?”

You nodded, already feeling yourself about to cry again. “Don’t I always?”

He chuckled, putting his hands on your waist. “Good. Take that money and go. Far away. And don’t look back.” His voice was steady and serious as a distant roll of thunder.

“Arthur,” you managed to squeak out, voice choked with tears. “I can’t leave you.”

He gritted his teeth, and you could tell he was fighting the urge to cry. He cleared his throat, saying, “Yes you can. This pain will pass, and you’ll go on and live a good life.”

Shaking, you reached up to his neck, fingers threading in his hair. “This can’t be how this ends,” you said, looking into his intense green eyes.

“It’s not endin’. The way I feel for you will never change,” he said, bending his head to touch the tip of his nose to yours. “You carry my heart, and knowing you’ll be safe from this mess, well, that’ll give me some peace. Please.”

Taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, you nodded. “I’ll go. I promise.” You pressed your lips to his in a soft, bittersweet kiss. “You sure there’s nothing I can do?” It came out more pathetic than you would have liked.

He took your face in his hands, and smiled. “I’m sure. Now I have to go. I don’t want them to come sniffin’ around here,” he said. Pulling you into his arms, he crushed you against him. Your fingers dug into him, your face buried in his shirt. Separating yourselves, he took your hand and kissed it. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.”


	4. Snowed In, Arthur/F!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Arthur/F!Reader fluff, featuring snow and a cozy fire.

High up in the Grizzlies you felt more like yourself than you had in weeks. After nearly killing Micah Bell in the middle of the camp, you got on your horse and rode hard north. The only thought in your mind was to get as far away as fast as possible. In a day you were in Valentine. In two, you were in the mountains. Since then it had been a peaceful and productive week of hunting.

As you pulled an elk across the snow on a makeshift sled, the skies began to darken. Heavy gray clouds were coming in fast, likely bringing a heavy snow. You weren’t worried. Your time in the Grizzlies had been made even more pleasant by the discovery of an abandoned cabin. Likely the fever dream of some rich city boy, it was well built and relatively untouched. Packing snow around the carcass, you headed inside and settled in for the evening.

Night fell, and the snow had come as promised. The wind howled, rattling the cabin’s windows. Huddled around the little fireplace, you pulled your blankets tighter around yourself. Wood strained and groaned under the storm, but you tried to ignore it. Unnerved, you laid a hand on your rifle, calming a little at the touch of the cool metal.

Something heavy began stomping around outside the door. It shook the floor beneath you, and you grabbed the gun. Pointing it at the door, you yelled, “Who goes there?!”

It could have been an animal, or snow falling off of the roof. Your heart pounded in your ears. Many a foolish man had assumed a woman alone in the wilderness was an easy target, and many had met their makers at the end of your rifle. The handle on the door shook, and you called out, “Leave this property right now or I’ll shoot!” The door swung open, and before they could come inside you fired a warning shot into the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” a familiar voice hollered. Arthur pushed in the door, hands up. “I spend a week trackin' you all over these mountains, and you shoot at me!” He put a hand on his heart, taking a deep breath.

“You could have been Lucifer himself for all I knew! Get in here, and close that door,” you gruffly told him, setting the rifle down in a far corner.

Grumbling, he turned to close the door, and you stepped over to him. Removing his hat, he shrugged off his frost-covered coat and you hung it on a hook by the door. He pulled at the buckle on his gun belt while you went over to the percolator and poured him a steaming cup of coffee.

“A peace offering,” you said, handing him the little tin cup.

He held the cup up to his nose, inhaling deeply. “This is more along the lines of what I was expectin’,” he said.

“Well hell. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” You put a hand up to his flushed face, his cheek like ice.

He sighed and closed his eyes. “You worry me to death, you know that?” Raising the cup to his lips, he took a deep drink. Coughing, he handed the cup back to you. “That has got to be the worst coffee I’ve ever had. Hand me that percolator.”

After ignoring the finer points of preparing coffee, you sat together in front of the fire. You were positioned between Arthur’s legs, your back pressed against his chest, his chin on your shoulder. Both of you were cocooned in blankets, the heat of the fire not enough to drive out the chill of the blizzard. He dozed as you softly sang a song learned from your father, about a man who murders a woman and prepares to hang for it. His arms wrapped around you, he gave you a little squeeze when you finished.

“That was real nice, darlin’,” he mumbled against the shell of your ear. Planting a soft kiss on the back of your neck, he hummed the tune of the song against your skin.

“Why thank you,” you said, a little shiver going through you at his touch.

“I heard you called Micah a ‘goat-fuckin imbecile’,” he chuckled, kissing his way up your neck and around your ear.

You snorted. “That and a few other things. I was madder than a hornets’ nest.”

“Don’t you worry. He got a bloody nose for his trouble,” he said.

At that you turned, twisting in the blankets so that you were on your knees, facing him. “I left to avoid causing trouble,” you said. You knew there was a divide forming between Arthur and Dutch, and you didn’t want to be in the middle of it. “I’m sure Dutch wasn’t happy about that.”

“Ah, Dutch is fine,” Arthur grumbled. His hands came up to cup your face. “I love you, darlin’. I won’t let anyone hurt you, especially Micah Bell.” He kissed you, his lips chapped from the cold. Your hands on his chest, you kissed him back hard.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that,” you told him, your forehead against his.

“What? I’ve told you I would protect you,” he said, looking a little confused.

You laughed. “Not that. That you love me.”

His cheeks flushed bright red, but he wasn’t embarrassed. “Well I do. I think I’ve felt this way for a long time. Don’t know why I didn’t say it ‘til now.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward and apologetic.

You moved to straddle his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders. “Well, I love you too, you foolish man.”

“Maybe stop running away from me every time you get angry.” He pressed his lips to yours again, hands resting on your hips.

“Alright,” you said, kissing his forehead.

“And maybe stop shooting at me every time I come running after you!”

“I’ll think about it.”


	5. Fools, Arthur/F!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first request I ever did! Arthur/Reader fluff.

Arrow nocked, with slow steady breaths you draw back and aim at the biggest elk you’ve ever seen. Pale white, contrasting sharply with the dark forest, it’s almost too beautiful to kill. But you’ve been in these hills for days, tracking this animal through the mud and the rain, and exhaling, you take your shot. It’s a clean kill, right through the heart, and the beast collapses without a fuss. Grinning like an idiot, you sling your bow over your shoulder and step carefully but excitedly down the hill to claim your prize. Pulling Arthur’s knife, “borrowed” just before you left, you get to work skinning the carcass.

It’s then, through the sound of the falling rain, that you hear a twig snap close by. Your ears perk up, but you don’t make a sudden move, not wanting whoever is watching you to know that you heard them. You finish your work, throwing the pelt over your shoulder and whistling for your horse, heading back towards the railroad tracks and the road down to Annesburg. The hoofbeats of your small black mare echo the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, panic rising in you. Carefully tying the pelt to the horse, you hop on, steering the animal towards the road.

You chide yourself for overreacting as you bump along South, almost convincing yourself that it was just another elk or a deer. But then you catch sight of something moving over in the trees. Speeding up, you put enough distance between yourself and your new friend, jumping off the horse and leaving her pretty obviously on the side of the road. Hiding yourself in the bushes, you pull your revolver, readying a shot as the stranger gets closer.

When your eyes land on the man, your whole body relaxes. Arthur Morgan pulls his horse to a stop, jumping down to step cautiously over to yours, a worried look on his face. The mare, suddenly spooked by a snake in the road, jerks and whinnies nervously.

“There, there, girl. He ain’t nothing to be afraid of, it’s just a harmless ol’ black snake,” Arthur coos, patting the animal’s neck, his back to you. “Where’d your rider go, huh?”

Holstering your gun, you silently move toward Arthur. Always known for giving as good as you got, you’re gonna give him the scare of his life. Right behind him, you shove him, knocking him off balance as you yell, “Why were you followin’ her?!”

“Jesus Christ!” Arthur yells, spinning around on one heel. “I could have shot you!”

“I almost shot YOU!” you holler back at him. “WHAT are you doin’ out here?” You throw your arms up in the air, gesturing wildly around.

Arthur puts a hand to his chest, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. “Well, hell. I…” He trails off, as if he actually forgot why he was there. “You… stole my knife!” he says, pointing at the black steel blade at your hip.

“You goddamn fool, you’re a terrible liar!” You jerk the knife off your belt, pushing it into his chest. “Take the thing, I don’t need it anymore.” Shoving him aside, you pull yourself up onto the horse.

Arthur, a somewhat confused and flabbergasted look on his face, says, “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna try to get away from you, but you’ll just track me anyway. A woman can’t be trusted to do a single goddamn thing on her own!” Angry, you whip the reins, urging the horse to move. But it’s still agitated from the snake, and instead she rears, nearly throwing you off.

Arthur moves in front of the horse, patting her face and whispering calming words to her. Then he looks at you, just as angry as you are now. “You’re the one who’s acting like a fool.” The words hold a little venom, his voice low so as not to further upset the mare. “You leave with no note, no word as to where you’re going. You steal my knife, and you come out here to this god forsaken place all by yourself,” he hisses, and you notice for the first time that he looks exhausted.

“Arthur,” you start, guilt rising in you, but he interrupts.

“I was worried,” he says, putting emphasis on each word. “I was worried, so I came and tracked you down.” He drops his hands from your horse, walking quickly back to his own.

“Arthur, wait!”

“No! Go on bein’ a lone wolf. I’m goin’ back to camp.”

Hurriedly, you jump down from your horse, running over to him. You wrap your arms around his waist, your cheek against his back.

“You just scared me, is all,” you tell him, your voice soft with just a hint of the scold from before.

He turns around, pulling you close. “Well you scared me too. Twice,” he grumbles, giving you a crooked smile.

“Sadie, John, hell even Kieran can go off fishin’ on his own without tellin’ anyone. Why can’t I?” Your hands move under his coat, trying to get warm against his chest. It gives Arthur chills, and he lets out a deep sigh.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, his face close to yours, the smell of smoke and rain on him. “Because I’m a goddamn fool?” A gloved hand comes up to your chin, and he kisses you then, his lips soft and gentle. Your hands circle around him, coming to rest on his hips.

You break away from him, your stomach doing cartwheels. His forehead against yours, you smile and say, “Don’t I know it.”


	6. Burn, Arthur/Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during Chapter 3. Reader's daughter is kidnapped with Jack.

You’ve cut a bloody swath up to the front door of Braithwaite Manor. With your revolver in one hand and a knife in the other, no man could stand between you and that house. Distantly, you hear the others hollering at you to get down, but you can’t heed them. There is a rage in your belly driving you, a spirit of vengeance that can not be stopped. As you take the steps up the porch, a figure appears to your right. Without thinking, your blade sinks into his throat and is ripped back out in a spray of blood. You feel it hit your face and your hand, an appropriate war paint.

_ You’re sitting at the ammo wagon, cleaning a rifle, when Kieran runs up to you. He always has a terrified look to him, but this is something else. His hands are shaking and his pupils are pinpricks. _

_ ‘They’re gone,’ he says. _

Arthur’s voice breaks through your violent haze. A rough hand grabs your arm, pulling you back. Shots ring out, and a bullet barely misses you as Arthur hugs you to his chest, revolver in his other hand and already returning fire. Men on the left end of the porch fall, and you jerk out of Arthur’s grasp.

“What are you doin’?! You tryin’ to make that girl an orphan?” he hollers at you.

_ A million thoughts run through your mind as you ride to Braithwaite Manor. Her little hands delicately braiding daisies together in a crown, placing it on your head when she’s finished. Her bare feet covered in mud from running up and down the lakeshore with Jack. Hysterical laughter as you chase her around the camp, catching and tossing her up into air, landing safely back in your arms. _

_ “We’ll get her back. I promise you that,” Arthur calls to you. _

Dutch comes up suddenly, kicks in the front doors. You follow close behind him with John, and you head into a room on the left. There’s a man cowering in the corner, not a threat, but you shoot him in the gut to be sure. Arthur is behind you tearing open chests and closets, calling the kids’ names.

“Jack! Cathy! Where are you?” he yells, over and over again.

“Cathy!” You scream her name, over and over, until your throat is sore and your voice is ragged.

Kicking down the door, you push your way into the next room. It’s an opulent study, walls lined with books and a massive oak desk in the center. Standing next to the desk is a man, shaking like a leaf, a pistol in his hand. The other is covering Cathy’s mouth, whose face is swollen from crying. When she sees you, she screams against his palm.

“Don’t you come near me! I’ll kill her, I swear!” the man cries, pointing the barrel at her head.

_ She comes running up to you, tears rolling down her cheeks. Sticking her hand out at you, you see a small crescent shaped blister on her palm. Trying to hide your laugh, you pull her close and tell her not to touch the stew pot, let the adults get that for her. Arthur puts honey on the burn, but she licks it off just as quick as he can put it on. _

You were going to yell something at him, lunge at him like a wild animal and tear his throat out. But Arthur speaks first.

“Now why would you do a fool thing like that? Let her go and you can walk right out of here,” Arthur tells him, calmer than you expected him to be.

“Arthur, we need you upstairs!” Dutch hollers, startling the man for a moment, jerking his attention away to the doorway behind him. It’s enough time for you to cleanly fire a round into his shoulder. The gun falls out of his hand and Cathy breaks free, running to you.

Her tiny body crashes into your knees and you hoist her up into your arms. You wipe the tears from her cheeks, checking her all over for signs of harm, finding none. She buries her face in your shoulder, trembling and sobbing. She had been gone for only a few hours, but to the both of you it felt like years.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here now.” You squeeze her to you, swearing to yourself to never let her out of your sight again.

You meet Arthur’s gaze, relief and exhaustion plain on his face. “Go,” he says. “Get her out of here.” He turns to the man whimpering on the floor, gripping his bloody shoulder.

Part of you, a large part, wants to send Arthur out of the room with Cathy. You have a hunger for vengeance that hasn’t been sated, not yet. But you know better. Revenge is a fool’s game, and you were lucky enough to find her unharmed. You move towards the door, but you stop.

“Arthur?”

“Yes?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at you, rifle pointed at the man.

“Make sure you burn this place to the ground,” you tell him, voice bitter and hoarse. As you leave a gunshot rings out from the study, and Arthur’s determined footsteps head out of the room and up the stairs.


	7. Coffee Smells Good, Sadie/Abigail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Clemons Point. Abigail is feeling pretty down and Sadie makes coffee.

Sadie was always the first to rise in the camp. Her sleep usually short and troubled, she was usually up before the sun and so was responsible for getting the coffee on and ready. Rising from her bedroll, careful not to disturb Karen snoring away beside her, she stretched and headed for the cook fire. It had died to little more than embers, so she set about getting it going again. When it was to her liking, she prepared the percolator and set it down next to fire. It only took a few minutes to brew, and she sat down listening to it bubble.

A little sound drifted over to her, coming from the shore. Someone softly crying, trying to stifle the noises. Standing, Sadie took a few tentative steps toward it. Abigail was sitting on a log, shoulders slumped, staring out at the water. She inhaled sharply, and wiped at her face.

At first thinking to give her privacy, Sadie walked back over to the fire. John had been an obnoxious ass the night before, and had openly flirted with Karen in front of everyone. Sadie couldn’t understand him, hard as she tried. Sure he was young and foolish, but he had a good woman and a child. They should be enough.

Grabbing two little tin cups from the provisions wagon, Sadie filled them both with hot coffee and headed over to Abigail. She was startled at first, trying to hide the signs that she’d been crying. There was no hiding her red face and her puffy eyes though.

“Sadie! Good lord, woman, I about jumped into that lake. What are you doin’ up so early?” she asked, taking the cup that Sadie offered.

“Hell I’m always up early. I don’t sleep very well ever since, well, you know,” Sadie said, biting her lip. She blew on her coffee, taking a seat next to Abigail. “Jack still sleepin’?”

“Oh yeah. I need dynamite to get that boy out of bed sometimes,” Abigail said, smiling. “Lazy, just like his father.” The words came out harsh, but Sadie only nodded.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Sadie put a hand on her shoulder, lightly squeezing.

Abigail took in a deep breath, holding the cup up to her nose. “Coffee smells good,” was all she said.

Sadie snorted a laugh. “Thanks. I do my damnedest.”

They sat in silence for a little while, watching the fog that had settled over the lake, the sun slowly rising behind them. The light was blue, the color of the world just before dawn. Sadie looked over at Abigail, watching her sip her coffee. It was still too hot to drink, and it made Abigail’s lips a bright red. She had calmed considerably, but she still wouldn’t meet Sadie’s eyes.

Sadie felt the words building in her, and they were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “He don’t deserve you.”

Abigail’s eyes flicked over to her for an instant, but she only laughed. “Oh I know it. I make sure he knows it every damn day.”

“I’m serious, Abigail. You’re sharp as a tack, beautiful, and a wonderful mother to that boy. John doesn’t know what he’s got,” Sadie told her.

Abigail smiled, a sincere one that made Sadie’s heart skip a beat. “Stop that. You’ll make me blush.”

Sadie grinned. “Well good. I sure hate to see you cry, so anything is better than that.”

Abigail laid a hand on Sadie’s thigh, giving her a pat but leaving the hand there. Now it was Sadie’s turn to blush, her cheeks and the top of her ears turning red.

“Abigail, I-” but before Sadie could say anything else, Abigail had turned and pressed her lips to Sadie’s. She smelled like coffee and a little bit of tobacco. Sadie melted into her, setting the cup down and holding Abigail’s face delicately in her hands. She felt Abigail’s fingers combing into her her loose golden hair, brushing against her scalp and sending a little shiver through her. After a moment, Abigail pulled back, kissing the corner of Sadie’s mouth and her cheek before standing.

There were little sounds now coming from camp, of people rising and dressing for the day. Abigail smiled at Sadie, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “You’re a lot sweeter than you let on, Mrs. Adler.” She headed off back towards her tent, Sadie staring after her.

She shook her head, chuckling under her breath, “Only for you, Miss Roberts.”


	8. Mrs. Callahan, Arthur/F!Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Saint Denis. In which reader and Arthur pretend to be married, and dupe a jeweler.

You were sitting on a bench close by the tailor, enjoying a cigarette while Arthur and Hosea were inside the shop. Hosea had asked you to dress as “plain and respectable as possible.” After giving him a look that could wilt flowers, you went to your trunk and put on a white blouse and a plain wine-colored skirt. Mary-Beth helped you pile your hair up into a semi-neat bun, and Hosea was pleased enough with the final result. The only thing he had added was a simple gold brooch, pinning it at the center of your collar. 

He had gone to Arthur with a similar request but wasn’t satisfied with anything Arthur had, and so they went to the tailor. Hosea still hadn’t told either of you why he was asking this, but you played along. Unlike Arthur, you enjoyed Hosea’s intricate scams, especially the ones involving some form of acting.

They soon emerged from the shop, Arthur done up in a respectable blue suit, nothing too conspicuous. He tugged at the collar, but Hosea slapped his hand away. 

“Arthur, if you touch that collar one more time, so help me-” Hosea started, his voice rising with each word. 

“Hosea, please,” Arthur sighed, exasperated. The man hated nothing so much in this world as playing dress up. 

You stepped over to the pair, tossing the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of your boot. Your eyes caught on the tie pin Arthur was wearing. It was a deep red enamel with an intricate gold “C” in the center. 

“That’s a lovely pin, Arthur,” you told him, giving him a smile as you brushed his shoulders and straightened his tie. 

“It was a gift from you for your first anniversary,” Hosea said, looking mighty proud of himself.

You cocked an eyebrow, and Arthur rolled his eyes so exaggeratedly you thought they were going to fall back in his head. “Well that was awful lovely of me. But it seems I’ve forgotten that. And also when we were married.” You shot a sideway glance at Hosea. 

“Let’s move somewhere a little less conspicuous,” he said, the old man guiding them toward a nearby alley. 

Hosea laid out his scheme. You and Arthur were to pose as a married couple, innocently shopping at a jewelry store. The owner was notoriously bad about keeping track of his keys, and when the moment presented itself, you were to grab the store key and make an imprint of it in a little box of putty Hosea provided. He would then take it to a blacksmith, get a new key made, and visit the shop in the night with some of the boys to raid the store. There was the promise of a big take with little effort, which always put you on edge. Anything too good to be true almost always was.

“What’s this guy look like?” Arthur asked, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Small fella, gray-headed. He wears big spectacles, has a big mole on his cheek,” Hosea told him.

Arthur snorted. “So Strauss but with a mole.” 

Hosea blinked and then laughed a little too loudly. “I s’pose so!”

Tucking the tin of putty away in the pockets of your skirt, you looped an arm through one of Arthur’s. “Well, boys. Let’s get to work.” 

You and Arthur walked with Hosea a little ways, parting a block from the shop. “I’ll be over at that fancy saloon. Meet me there when you’re finished,” Hosea said, waving and heading down an alley. 

Arthur shook his head, took a breath, and let it out slowly. “Well, Mrs. Callahan. You ready?”

“I believe I am, Mr. Callahan.”

You both stepped into the jewelry store, still arm in arm. It was blessedly empty, save for a little man just as described behind one of the counters. He was repairing a slim gold chain, knowledgeable hands working gently. The bell at the door seemed to startle him, causing those hands to shake a little. Easily spooked was, in your experience, never a good thing in a mark. 

“Bonjour, my friends! I’m Monsieur Bernard. What can I do for you?” he greeted you, setting down his tools and the little chain.

“Hello, sir! My husband and I are looking for gifts for each other. Our second anniversary is coming up soon,” you told him, grinning and squeezing Arthur’s arm. 

Arthur gives you a warm smile that makes your heart skip. “I don’t know why, but she’s stayed with me for nearly two whole years. So I’ll give her whatever her heart desires,” he says, pulling your hand up to his lips for a quick chaste kiss. 

The jeweler smiled, and moved around the counter. “That’s wonderful. You make a handsome couple. Did you want to stick to the theme for the number? I believe the second anniversary is the one for cotton. Now I don’t have anything strictly…” He spoke as he busied himself pulling trays from the display cases. There was a tray full of rings and necklaces, another of gold and silver cufflinks. He showed a pearl necklace, and a lovely set of pearl earrings to pair it with. 

Arthur kept a hand on the small of your back, but his eyes never left the jeweler. You were taking notice of the keys that seemed to hang invitingly out of his pocket. When Bernard stepped around the counter to help Arthur try some of the cufflinks, you saw an opportunity. 

Stepping closer to Bernar, you pulled him aside, whispering in his ear about finding something extra special for your husband, how money was no object. While talking, your hand slipped next to his pocket and slowly but softly pulled the keys free, placing them in your own pocket without Bernard any the wiser. He nodded, said something about checking the back of the store, and head through a doorway out of sight. 

Pulling the keys out quickly, you huddled next to Arthur. “Which one does Hosea want?” you asked, nervously looking through the ring. 

Arthur grabbed the biggest and oldest looking one. “This one. Has to be the building key.” 

You pulled the tin of putty out, pressing the key into it. It left a perfect imprint, surely good enough for Hosea. As you you were replacing the tin in your pocket, you heard the footsteps of Bernard coming back to the shop. You and Arthur did your best to look nonchalant, and when Bernard returned you went up to him with his key ring in hand, sweetly saying, “Monsieur, I believe you dropped this. You must be more careful.” 

Later that night, you were sitting by the scout fire keeping watch when Hosea and Arthur rode in. The job had been a complete success, and Hosea slid off his horse and moved quickly to Dutch’s tent, throwing it open and tossing gold rings onto the sleeping man. 

While they celebrated, Arthur came over to you. He took a seat next to the fire, a smile on his face. 

“So Mr. Callahan. Are we set for life?” you asked, giving Arthur a wink. 

He gave a short laugh, removing his hat and running a hand through his shaggy blonde hair. “Not for life, but for a good while, Mrs. Callahan.” Reaching into his pocket, he kept something hidden in his hand. “We don’t have the money yet, but I thought you should have something now. You did good today.” 

“I’m not much for jewelry, Arthur. Can’t keep nothing nice for long in this life,” you said, staring into the fire.

He didn’t say anything, just stood and moved behind you. Delicately moving your hair out of the way, he laid a silver locket around your throat. When he clasped it, he laid a soft kiss at the back of your neck. Goosebumps rising on your skin, you touched the little round piece of silver.

“Arthur,” you started, but he pulled you up into a real kiss. His lips were chapped but gentle, one hand cupping your face while the other rests at your hip. You leaned into him, eyelids fluttering closed, your hands twisting in the front of his shirt. 

“I had a good time with you today,” he said, his forehead to yours. 

“I… liked being Mrs. Callahan,” you told him, giving a small smile. 

His fingers gingerly touched the locket, brushing against your skin. “We’ll need to break out that charade more often then.”


End file.
